The Radio Detectives in the Jungle

by A. Hyatt Verrill

Shouting to Colcord and the Indians, the explorer tore down the bank and across the rocks with the others at his heels. Already the boat was several yards from land, but as he heard Mr. Thorne’s commands and realized what he was doing, Colcord checked the boat, uttered sharp orders to the Indians and with Sam’s help swung the boat ashore. The four men and the boys leaped in and instantly the terrified Indians dug their paddles into the stream and drove the boat madly from the accursed spot.

“Too bad, but it can’t be helped,” muttered Mr. Thorne. “I hate to leave him, but there’s nothing to be done.”

“Well, he’s tossed many a poor devil to the sharks!” exclaimed Rawlins. “So I guess it kind of evens up things. But by glory, I’d like to know where his mate is.”

CHAPTER X—RED BEARD SEALS HIS DOOM

Far up in the Guiana jungles and strangely incongruous and out of place in the heart of the bush, a seaplane rested half drawn upon the shore of a small lake. High above the mighty trees it had flown from Georgetown, following the course of the great river stretching like a silver ribbon through the endless jungle and like a giant bird it had circled and swooped to the surface of Maipurisi Lake. For a hundred miles and more its occupants had seen no break in the forest, no sign of civilization, no house or clearing save the scattered thatched benabs of Indians or the small, half-cleared patches of forest that marked the red mens’ gardens. Hounded from one secret rendezvous to another, their submarine wrecked and many of her crew killed in a collision; with their own steamship blown up in St. John’s harbor and with a destroyer hot on their trail, the master mind of the gang of international rogues and his trusted assistant had sought refuge in the heart of unknown Guiana. Confident that they had thrown their pursuers off their track; certain that their fellows had hoodwinked their enemies and had wrecked the destroyer in the Bocas, and congratulating themselves on their clever ruse of boldly entering Denierara and departing in an airship while posing as explorers, yet the two rascals were taking no chances.

They well knew that the men trailing them were no amateurs; that they were matching wits with the most resourceful members of the Secret Service and they also knew that their enemies, by almost uncanny intuition, had foreseen and had checkmated their every move for weeks past. There was a chance that in some way their well-laid plans had miscarried: that the destroyer had escaped destruction, and that finding--as they inevitably must--that the story of the Devonshire was a myth and that an aircraft had left the Devon, Mr. Pauling and the others would leave no stone unturned to capture the ship and her crew. The two arch fiends had no desire to be present when this took place.

Months before this they had kept British Guiana in view as a last resort in case of just such an emergency as had arisen, for Van Brunt had told of an ancient ruined city hidden in the heart of the unexplored district. A city of a prehistoric race upon the shores of a great lake and within the ruins of which were vast stores of golden ornaments and bullion. But he had never divulged the exact locality of this lost and supposedly fabulous golden city of Manoa--the El Dorado that sent Sir Walter Raleigh on his travels. Van Brunt was no fool and he knew his fellow rogues too well to trust them with his secret, but he had sworn that, should occasion arise, he would accompany them and guide them to the lost city.

But Van Brunt had met a sudden and violent death upon the tramp and his secret had died with him. Not until the two men in the plane had looked down from the clouds upon that vast, illimitable sea of green stretching away in billowing hills to the distant mountains, did they realize what a hopeless task it would be to locate the city by the lake. That mattered little, however. For the present, they planned merely to hide for a short time, to await word from confederates in Dutch Guiana that the coast was clear and then, by an easy flight, travel into the Dutch colony, gather their men together to resume their interrupted activities and wreak vengeance on those who had relentlessly hunted them down. So, having left every trace of civilization far behind, and feeling confident that even the Americans would never dream of attempting to trail them into the heart of the hush, they selected Maipurisi as a promising spot and swiftly dropped to the smooth surface of the lake.

But fate was against them. As their great plane dropped below the tree tops and, with the cessation of the motor’s exhaust, skittered across the black surface of the forest lake, an unseen, undreamed of snag lay hidden among the lily pads and with a rending, sickening sound, the thin skin of their boat was ripped open for a dozen feet. The propeller had not ceased to revolve and realizing their one chance lay in making the shore, the pilot switched on the motor and slowly the crippled plane dragged across the few hundred feet of water until its bow grated on the sand.

With the after half of its hull submerged, injured beyond repair, but safe from sinking, the now useless aircraft rested like some huge wounded bird in the shelter of the overhanging trees.